Awaken
by Ignited
Summary: He hasn't gone after me. I don't think he needs to. The wolf will kill me one day. He's sure of it. He's very sure of it." Sirius returns, very different, much as his world is. (RemusSirius)


**Title**: Awaken  
**Author**: Ignited  
**Rating**: R  
**Category**: Dark, Angst (It's apocalypse!fic. ...Those things go hand in hand, really.)  
**Pairing**: Remus/Sirius  
**Summary**: _"He hasn't gone after me. I don't think he needs to. The wolf will kill me one day. He's sure of it. He's very sure of it."_  
**Spoilers**: Post-OotP  
**Notes**: Many thanks to Annie for ze beta and Katy for her encouragement.  
**Dedication**: For Annie, with love. :)

* * *

_I looked into your eyes and saw  
A world that does not exist  
I looked into your eyes and saw  
A world I wish I was in  
-- Touched, VAST_

* * *

When Sirius awakens, his head swims from the stench of rotting flesh. 

It surrounds him, nearly penetrates him, touching, clawing madly into him. A death shroud, black darkness, pliable, cold, stiff. Gasping for air, hands shove forward and push out, swimming up through the black until he's crazed and needy. Needing air, needing to move up, flailing, kicking towards a crack of light. It opens, pale white flooding in, framed in stiff limbs and petrified fingers.

Sirius crawls towards the light, reserving his voice for energy, fighting the screams as dead hands and blackness try to overtake him still. Then he's out, crawling, dirt and blood under nails. A ditch it seems, where the dead go, dropped lifeless into a river of pale blue, black, red and pink. There is very little pink left, and more of the dark colors to thrive.

After minutes pass endlessly, he is fully out, breathing heavily. Dirt and mud smeared, skin crusted with dried crimson, flecks in his hair. He is out now, painfully so, rolling onto his back to breathe in great lungfulls of air. The action pains him, but he ignores it, just breathing, relishing the fact that he can.

When this passes, sated and ever more confused, Sirius looks down the length of his stomach, down the side of the ditch. He sees the bodies, the effuse mixed in with garbage, shrapnel, how the flies hang low in numerous clouds. So he retches on the side, wiping his mouth on a sleeve - wearing clothing, bad clothing, no bare flesh against dead-before closing his eyes. Only air, a breeze that carries death smell, rustling brown grass.

There are no birds in the sky, no moving pinpricks of black against white.

He takes another few minutes to breathe, turning around to pull himself up. A wave of pain makes him shiver, stagger weakly before falling in a heap. Broken doll's strings cut. He coughs, waits for some strength to return before he tries standing up again.

At this level, Sirius notices that only the bare bones of buildings remain, broken down and crumbling. Stones and dust litter the street, making him wonder where they came from. What buildings they belonged to, and the people who lived there. Around him lies a ghost town and far off are mountains bare, none covered in lush green, only jagged browns and blacks. The ground is cracked in numerous places, chasms where weeds have grown into and out of. Trees that have once lined the street are broken in half, limbs reaching in gnarled claws towards the grey of dusty ground.

He sees the blackened marks and bloody cuts on his skin, but ignores them, gingerly taking steps forward. It is when he does this that he notices the familiarity of these broken structures, the paths, the signs.

This ground is littered with the remains of Hogsmeade, childhood dreams and an adult haven.

Sirius stares blankly at these sights, mouth open, unable to comprehend. It seems that the sight of buildings he once visited-there, Zonko's, a treasured shop, and over there, first taste of butterbeer-shook himself more than the previous. More than the ditch filled with bodies, their smell still lingering black and smoke in his nose. It takes him a moment to see that much of the dust is actually ash, soft grey and mixed with pebbles. Explosions, bricks, mortar, volcanic disruption-it flashes in a second, then he sees masked faces in his eyes, pointing cruel wands and cackling all the while.

It takes him further to see the bodies that lie cold and stiff, some appearing to be statues, broken and crumbling under ash. Bending, he brushes the arm of one woman and watches her disintegrate, carry on towards the winds.

But it is further still when he rests weary limbs after a half hour's worth of travel and pauses near a well. It's not full; there is a bucket nearby that is. So he tries to get water, trying to bring himself some respite from the grime on his skin, the cold void around him.

Then he notices something different.

Sirius Black is not a day older than seventeen.

* * *

Joy and confusion nearly overtake Sirius, making him feel as Padfoot's been set up with a challenge. Get the stick, no, that one, the OTHER one, James would say, and then laugh maniacally. He'd go into a convulsion of giggles until Padfoot was Sirius again, tackling and roughhousing afterwards.

Roughhousing with strong boy arms and boundless energy in a body that he was now in, after years.

He had been sitting on the edge of the well for good on ten minutes now, staring and unable to comprehend the trembling reflection. But he'd confirmed it after all with reaching, shaking fingers that snaked over flesh and hair. Gone were those lines and black ink that marked and aged him in Azkaban, and the seventh year Gryffindor remained. Tall, fit, unmarred skin and all smiles. Hair still a mess, though not as much as James had been and-

Clearly, something was wrong.

Sirius wonders if he's been transported back in time, but then he can't be, for why does he remember Azkaban, years afterwards? And why is everything gone in Hogsmeade and God, he's all _seventeen_ and-

"I've gone stark mad," Sirius says out loud, mouth fumbling with a voice that hasn't been scarred from screaming. Shivers more, pulling numbly at the rags he's clothed in, before standing. There is still no sign of life around here, none, which further makes him uneasy. He breathes in deeply, trying to calm his nerves. Only wind and dust carries on sound, until he decides to change into Padfoot.

Then the senses are on overdrive when he does, and everything's less colorful but still interesting like the sound of bugs and worms and wind whistling nearby, but no animals so he can't have anything to chase so-

_Easy_, Sirius thinks, trying to regain control over the sensory overload. It takes a moment, but he does, and then presses his nose to the ground, trying to pick up smells. Anything living is faint, anything of interest rather, for there are all sorts of insects. Nothing wizard, although if there had been, it was faint, distant. Months, years before perhaps.

_Nothing 'round for miles... Other than Hogwarts_

He could go there, and find out what's wrong. Why Hogsmeade is destroyed, where are the people, and fuck, he's seventeen again and that's not right-

But then Sirius remembers further still, and blackness enshrouds the last memories.

This is when Sirius remembers that he has died.

* * *

_I... died?_

He realizes that Padfoot's been bounding towards Hogwarts for quite some time now, wind ruffling his coat, paws barely touching brown grass. On automatic, as his mind mulls over these things, faces that reflect in his mind, blurry, fragmented. He begins to remember that night, the weather, the clothes and faces and flashes. How he slipped away, a veil, and then there was darkness that soon lightened. Lightened still, until it was a brilliant white that made his eyes hurt, dimmed slightly, soft.

In this white, he felt content.

Then he awoke an hour or so before, in the ditch of bodies.

The dog continues running, just cresting the hill where the sight of Hogwarts will greet him, with its lake and turrets, flags flapping lazily in the breeze. He'll see soft lights from the windows, and he'll see the tower where Dumbledore has his office. Then he'll be okay. He'll be fine.

When he reaches the top of the hill, he does not see these things.

He falls now, in a body that is not fully his own, an animal that still manages to whimper. For at the bottom in this great valley lies only ruins, blacked marks and tatters of flags that hang limp. The lake bed is dry and scorched, while furniture and other bits of rubble litter the grounds of Hogwarts. He can see skeletons and bodies that are also stiff near the edges of the school. Bodies that rot and don't smell well and they'll never throw sticks for him to chase, ever, because they're dead and they smell very awful-

Sirius slips a little, Padfoot moving forward, slowly coming towards Hogwarts.

It is here that he sees movement, black shapes with white blurs over faces, poking through rubble. They lift wands and blast through objects, until the air is filled with the smell of flesh and rubble. Some shout orders, others talk casually, others cheer. Padfoot doesn't hear them, nor cares to.

But Sirius does, and asserts his mind again.

"-nothing to find left of importance," says one robed figure, talking to another. "Whoever was here cleared out before the last group. Dumbledore's gone off hiding but Lord Voldemort knows where he is. The Order might try to protect him but-"

"The Order is in shambles," crows another, more than likely grinning underneath the mask of white. "They've nothing left to defend. Lord Voldemort has complete control over half of Europe. The Potters are gone, off hiding or some such just like Potter's parents. Potter's better off dead himself, after what Lord Voldemort did to him... And Weasley's not going to last very long."

"True. Very true. I wish I could have seen it. Just for the look on Potter's face-"

"You two. Sagging off work, eh?"

Padfoot's ears prick towards the new voice, lying low in the bushes nearby. He sees another robed figure, except this one does not wear a mask. White hair-blond, he thinks, though everything is black and white to his eyes at the moment-pointed face, a sneer. Bit tall, about twenty years. Sirius thinks this is that Draco Malfoy Harry told him about once, then remembers Harry still-- _Potter's better off dead himself, after what Lord Voldemort did to him_--which twists something in his stomach.

"Never, Lord Malfoy."

"Never, your grace."

"That's what I thought," says Malfoy, a sneer twisting his lips. "Search the area for anything moving. Kill it if it does. And make sure they've secured what little valuables this rotten place has to offer. If they find any-the poor pit that it is."

The two people rush away as others move towards Malfoy, questioning, tending. Hanging on every word, so Sirius moves on, showing no interest for the sycophants. The mental record of what has happened to whom does not comfort Sirius, making him feel worse. Harry, Ron... the girl Hermione, he's not sure of, although notices that Harry has taken up a wife. Years have passed and everything is in shambles, Voldemort in power, having won the war, he imagines.

_I need help. Someone to help me sort this mess. I can't go to Dumbledore, and none of the teachers seem to be ...well, here or alive for that matter..._

Then it hits as fast as he smells it in the air.

The scent of a werewolf, the scent that belongs to one particular Remus Lupin.

It is a faint smell, possibly etched in dirt or mud that Remus walked on-fell towards, limp and not alive, no, can't-but it is all that Sirius has to go on, to cling to. He runs again as the clouds turn grey with rain, while tree boughs shake and break off in the wind. The forest is filled with dead trees that clatter and shake, a sound that whistles and hushes. Sirius moves past the trees, towards the familiar, if unwelcome sight of the Whomping Willow. Except what remains of the Willow is a massive twisted stump, dead roots clinging to brown dirt.

Nearly disappointed-what if the entrance was sealed?-but finding hope again, as the hole is still there, underneath the roots. Padfoot moves towards the entrance, shy at first, but moving fast when he realizes that there are no moving tree limbs to deflect him.

He crawls down into darkness once more.

* * *

After years have passed, undergrowth has seeped into the jagged, cave-like hallway, vines and greenery hanging low. There are green patches in the mostly brown plants, some life clinging deep underground, while there is none on the surface. Padfoot continues on, paws gingerly stepping over puddles and mud. He bounds up the stone staircase, nudging the floor hatch open.

It creaks, as much as the house does, but he moves up and in. The Shrieking Shack, intact-or at least, still standing-is even worse than he remembered. And that, after all, is saying something. Patches of white light filter through boarded walls, too much white where there should be none. In some patches, the floors have collapsed, in others, black scorch marks remain, as well as old claw marks. The floor is webbed with scratches, pale tan against grey wood. The air smells of vermin and insects, flies hovering over something furry and rotting in one corner.

Carefully climbing up the staircase, the smell of werewolf growing stronger, Padfoot avoids the dead rats littering the steps. He shakes a paw to shake a spider web off of it, before hearing movement upstairs.

Scratching, clawing up the staircase, Padfoot moves quickly, then nudges the door open with his muzzle.

Remus is sitting near a window in the corner, long arms around equally long legs that are brought up under his chin. He rocks back and forth, hair in his eyes, staring out the window. Barely clothed, in tatters of trousers. This does not surprise Sirius.

The fact that Remus's pale white skin is nearly completely covered in scars and open, reddish wounds does.

He has seen him naked before, countless times in the past, when the skin was nearly flawless, with little scars, and when it was marred many times after. But this, this is cruel. This is a man who is terribly scarred and broken, those bits and pieces Sirius would look at languidly in adoration are scarred and twisted. This is flesh that where scars end, bright new red wounds begin. This is flesh that is traced in thin wisps, thicker ones, pink, red, brown. Flesh that's thin skin stretched over sharp angles.

When Remus looks up at him, Sirius's heart sinks still; the little scars he loved and ached to touch are joined by fresh and old ones he doesn't remember. They wind down the curve of Remus's gaunt face, over his brow and jaw, an eye half closed due to one, mouth slightly pulled down at one side because of another.

Sirius knows the wolf would try to take Remus inside, but he did not think it would be this disfiguring on the outside as well.

"Dog," Remus starts, eyes now slits. He backs away hurriedly, revealing so many more scars and welts on his chest, so very thin and trembling. Violently slamming his back into the wall behind him, Remus stares, looking half crazed. "Dog. The Grim. The Grim-"

He stops moving those long legs, seeming to calm. "Grim-Dog Pad Padfoot?"

Slowly but surely, Sirius changes back to human from Padfoot, staring down at Remus, uncomprehending.

"...Moony?"

Remus starts to moan and shake, staring up at Sirius, turning to claw at the wall. He wails Sirius's name, mixed with other curses, repeating the word 'ghost' over and over, eyes blood shot and crazed.

"You're dead! DEAD! God, you're _dead_--!"

Remus stops when Sirius envelops him in an embrace, hard and forceful and needing, wanting. Pushing away at first, scratching with animal instincts, Remus claws at Sirius's back. It's of no use, for Sirius only holds him tighter still, breathing in deep the smell of blood and sweat. He feels his fingers slip past light brown hair, flecked so much more now with grey. Feels them clench those strands, how his chest meets a thin one, his body warm while Remus's isn't.

Hot tears spill forth, and for a few minutes after, it is just _them_ again, clinging to each other and sobbing in the dark.

* * *

"You _died_," Remus says, looking up underneath tangled brown hair. "You're... You can't. I saw you, Sirius, I saw you go through and-and you died and-"

Sirius straightens, back rigid. He is sitting next to Remus, tracing the curves of these scars with his eyes, ignoring the creak and shake of rickety floorboards. Outside, the sky has darkened and clouds brim with a rain that never falls. Inside the shack, Remus sits next to him, back hunched, tracing scratches on the floor with wounded hands.

"I know," Sirius mutters, not at all keen on discussing the subject. "I came back. I-I don't know _how_ I came back, but I did. And I'm seventeen again, at least, I think I am."

He laughs, but it is bittersweet. "Not that it does me any good what with..."

Sirius feels Remus's penetrating stare, how hurried eyes scan Sirius's skin, hair, face. Eyes that would rightly know more than a mere bucket of water's reflection would. The gaze moves away again, as does Remus himself, slowly, edging away.

"Seventh year, I gave you that scar when you came up running on the hill there and I wasn't quite myself yet," Remus says in a rush, beginning to shiver. "You laughed it off and called it a love bite, but I felt terrible weeks after."

Sirius's hand brushes his collarbone, feeling the small scar on the right side. It is more pronounced than he recently remembers, not the faded tissue, as this scar is 'new'.

"And then I took you near the lake in winter and gave you one myself," Sirius says slowly, staring at hands he hasn't seen in more than a decade. He flexes his fingers, looking at the unmarred skin as though the black ink remained etched on. "It went on your left side. I thought I was so clever. Friendship scars."

He looks over at Remus who sits up straight, eyes down and showing off the small little scar on his left side. Right on the collarbone, new scars bisecting the old little one.

Now Sirius feels afraid, even more than before strangely enough. Why is he here, young again-as he wished he could take back those years before he died, be young, relish it, never screaming-and alive? Why, when Remus far deserves it, when he is a half-starved and trembling mess of wounds and furtive glances?

It pains Sirius to look at Remus, not because of the outside marks, but because of all the full moons he's missed and couldn't be there for.

"How long has it been?" Sirius asks slowly, staring at the whiteness of the sky out the window.

"Sev-no, si-five. Five years," Remus answers, fumbling at first, unsteady. He doesn't look at Sirius; he stares out the window instead. "It feels longer..."

_Five years? That long?_

In Sirius's head, it clicks, as he doesn't know how long he felt content in that void of white. How long he was away, forever and an instant at the same time. It was peace then, not this black and white torment, half a blessing and half a curse.

He should not be here.

But he is.

"Where's Harry?" Sirius asks calmly, in a voice that is not much older than Harry the last time he saw him. At the mention of Harry's name, Remus stiffens, winces. Each movement makes Sirius even further pained, seeming to chip his insides bit by bit.

"...Sirius-"

Sirius looks in Remus's direction fully, an eyebrow raised when Remus pulls back, bringing up his legs to shield him. He pedals back again, moving towards the wall, trying to claw in a cave to hide in. Can't work though, it won't work, because Sirius won't let him. He moves towards Remus on his knees, ignores the pebbles and bits of wood that sting. Sitting near him, Sirius gently slips his arm around Remus's back, a voice screaming inside when his skin rubs against old scars. It's of no use to be going over the anger inside, the want and fury over five years he didn't exist. No changing that, no changing what has happened to Remus.

Sirius can try.

"I know it's probably the last thing you want to think about right now," Sirius begins, clearing his throat. A sigh before he shakes the hair out of his eyes. "Considering your dead best friend just showed up nearly twenty years younger-I think I might be quite surprised myself."

Remus laughs, a terrible, awkward noise that hasn't been heard for long, Sirius imagines. Yet he relishes the sound, how it puts a stray burst of life into this broken man.

"Voldemort captured him. I couldn't stop him, none of us could, we tried, we tried and then ...And then he tortured him, Sirius, tortured him," Remus repeats, trembling, eyes wide. The look pains Sirius, how Remus looks like that lost boy of eleven again, unable to find a class. Or worse, his homework. Strange how fears so rapidly changed over the passage of time.

"Tortured..." Sirius trails off, forehead knit unhappily. "I'll kill him. I'll kill him, Moony-"

"You CAN'T." Remus shakes his head angrily, biting his lip. "You can't. We've _tried_. Harry tried! And what happened to him? He's... You can't see him, Sirius, the things Voldemort did to him-Hermione, she's clever you know, Head Girl-she looks after Harry. Still stays with him, married and all-"

"Remus," Sirius says firmly, staring at him. A rambling Moony is something that Sirius is clearly not accustomed to, though understanding. He'd be rambling and half-crazed himself-hell, he was, after Azkaban-but for Remus, grammatically proper and polite was his usual traits. Not this. Not this half-mad, shivering mess-_God, I'll kill him. I'll do worse than murder him. I'll make sure he doesn't come back. Ever._

"Calm down. Please? I need you to tell me what happened to Hogwarts so I can try to help..." Sirius trails off again. What was to be done about it? It was ruined, only some framework left standing. Students, teachers were dead, and more than a fair share of them had been the only people Sirius knew that could be of some use.

"They're dead. They're all dead. The Order is dead. He's picking them off, each and every... single... one," Remus says, sullen, burying his head in his arms. "He hasn't gone after me. I don't think he needs to. The wolf will kill me one day. He's sure of it. He's very sure of it."

A nod, then he rocks back and forth again.

"I watched you die, then they all did. They all fell and _died_. There's no one else. No one. He's got half of Europe and he'll get more..."

He opens his eyes slightly, haunted and dark.

"He'll get you, Sirius."

A muscle in Sirius's jaw twitches, as he restricts himself from leaping forward, just holding, just _doing_ something. For when he thinks Remus shall break, instead _he_ breaks Sirius.

He sees the scars and tattered trousers, the sharp angles of hipbones against dirty fabric. Remus is all sharp angles now, smooth and thin skin strained. Translucent even, pale marble that lets the beauty shine within, crisscrossed in red, pink, and white. It pains him further when he sees that Remus is still beautiful, even more than before in his eyes.

"You're too thin," Sirius mumbles, moving up to sit on his haunches. "You haven't been eating, Moony."

"Vermin isn't my preferred meal, Sirius," Remus mutters in response, staring down at the floor.

"It'd do you no good to starve yourself to death. A starved and drained werewolf would be no use either," Sirius says, then regrets it. More hunching and clinging to knees, trying to push himself into shadow. Sirius decides to move forward, very careful, on all fours.

Memories of Padfoot are easy to recall, how he'd playfully nip at Remus, bother him while working or studying. Just for a comment, a reprimand, and perhaps a scratch behind the ears.

Remus isn't like that anymore.

So Sirius instead moves forward and plants his head right in Remus's lap, breathes in deep the smell of sweat, of Moony. It's a hurried breath that nearly turns into rapid sobs, fingers looping around trouser belt loops. Remus growls at this, stops rocking, stares blankly out the window. He glances at Sirius below, softens at the half-awake glance, hair messy and in his eyes.

* * *

Remus remembers smiling.

* * *

He remembers touch, grasp, lying down and sitting, Sirius's head in his lap, sweaty and sulking. Rambling on about homework, a girl, James, anything, combat boots on the armrest far down. Sirius was too big, too solid, arms reaching up and back to pull Remus's book down. Give a glance, a noise of disapproval-and then ask him to borrow it late at night-before going on.

Sometimes he didn't though; sometimes he'd just lie there, head on Remus's lap, and stare out the window. Remus could look at him in profile, the curve of his jaw, wisps of black hair against his right temple and eyelids. Slow and soft, they'd close, and Remus would hold his book in one hand, fingers entwining strands in the other.

There were other times when the common room was full, or going to be, and Sirius would half kick and punch Remus when others came in, tackle him down to the floor. He'd roughhouse with him, yelling out something or other, telling Remus to shove off. An eyebrow or two would rise, and the kids would go off, ignoring them.

It was also after these incidents that Remus would get the best lie-ins that weekend, when Sirius would apologize by letting Remus read to him more than the usual. By letting him pick up a poetry book, a mystery novel, and drone on, much to Sirius's chagrin. It was his mouth that frowned, but in his eyes were apology, near rapture.

"And then they were set to - Sirius, are you listening?"

"Shove... off... Gnghhh..."

* * *

A breath exhaled, long and slow, through bared teeth. Remus falters at first, fingers stiff and dirty, hovering over tousled black hair. As if not to mar the bit of imperfection, the bit of past years newly made flesh once more. Then the stiffness slowly leaves, and he feels his fingers automatically stroking Sirius's hair. Tendrils of black against pale scarred skin, how those fingers dip and cradle his head carefully. Sirius moans a little in pleasure, smiles.

Then he turns and he's on his back, staring up at Remus, seeming to look no older than the rambunctious first year again. It's the eyes, Remus thinks, and watches him.

"I missed you," Remus says, then stops, because he can't really convey more. He can't speak of nights alone, without conversation, empty beds and empty closets. Sirius had died, and a veil of sorts spread further, taking Harry, taking them all, scarring him and leaving him brutally alive. But Sirius is here now, alive and warm, young and flawless. It makes Remus ache with longing, an urge to grab him, touch and prod him. Make sure, make sure, it's not a figment, it's not voices again. It can't be voices again, not this solid skin and bones, not whispers of smoke-

It can't, but something deep down in Remus nearly disagrees.

"It's strange, really," Sirius begins, grabbing one of Remus's hands, fingers barely touching the scarred skin. "The way time passes. I wasn't gone but a minute-or, well, very long, to me, and all this happened. It's gotten all bollocksed up, it has."

"People change," Remus says lamely, letting Sirius examine his hands. He remembers the stray comments Sirius would give him sometimes, the bit where Sirius said he had a nice mouth, the other snippet where Sirius praised his hands. But now they're all different and crooked and _older_, so what would Sirius say now? Nothing, or at least, nothing to offend Remus. And on that point, Remus fumbles for words now. It's not the awkward fumbling during an infatuation, courtship. It's the fumbling that results from forgetting better times and remembering crueler ones.

This seems to have an effect on Sirius, for he looks up at Remus questioningly, then at his hands again.

"We need to leave this shack, Moony."

"No." It's harsh and sudden, spit out in near anger. Remus looks at the window, the darkening sky. There's no moon out, and there won't be for near four weeks, but the dark sky still unnerves him. Nights were cruel, cold and dark, bringing memories of a werewolf running loose, of the Potters dying. It's being holed up here in the shack that makes Remus think about these moments ever so often, without outside distractions.

Sirius sits up a little, moves to sit next to Remus. He may be younger, but certainly not much smaller, as he's all flailing boy-limbs and solid muscle. Hell, even more solid than Remus, and certainly less bad.

"Remus. I know-I know it's hard, I'd imagine, going out but- you can't stay in here. It's not good for you. I'll be with you. We need to sort things out, and it'd be no good to stay here to do so."

It's a strange sentence that comes from Sirius, from a mouth that was more prone to being sarcastic and offering ideas that would make Remus's Prefect badge rust over with pain.

"I don't- I don't want to leave," Remus says, the look in his eyes adding, _because then you're gone, and I will have been dreaming all this time._

Fortunately, Sirius knows him through and through, so he quietly waves an arm, gesturing for Remus to move over. Remus does so, scratching against wood, leaning his head against the crux of Sirius's shoulder and neck.

"Remember in seventh year, the summer, we were at James' house - and Lily brought in that Muggle record player, and her music."

"You wouldn't leave it alone," Remus answers, thoughts jumbled and in a rush-as they usually are now. "You nearly broke it, playing all those records, and almost crashing into the blasted thing as Padfoot."

"James threatened to give me a bath," Sirius replies, indignant, fingers edging to touch Remus's shoulder, sending shivers down his spine. "With one of those flea removal potions. I would've smelled like rotten eggs. No thank you."

Remus smiles a little, looking pained. He coughs, which leads Sirius to hug him closer.

"Any road, she brought in _Abbey Road_ and you and I almost had at it over record time."

"You kept going on about the _White Album_."

"Which is obviously, the right choice, still."

"It's not the crowning masterpiece."

"I would've crowned _you_."

"Is there a point to this, Sirius?"

It seems as if the old banter is back again, only different and spaced out. Remus takes his time to speak, eyes looking down underneath messy fringe. He trembles at Sirius's fingers, now the better looking ones, he thinks, as they stroke his shoulder.

"Golden Slumbers."

A sharp intake of breath. _If this is a dream, then it is too cruel._

"Sleep pretty darling do not cry," Sirius murmurs, voice barely audible. Whether it is to hide the fact that he cannot sing, that it is cold and shiver inducing, or that he doesn't want Remus to scramble away, Remus doesn't know. "And I will sing a lullaby-Golden slumbers fill your eyes, smiles awake you when you rise."

"Sod," Remus mutters against the hollow of Sirius's neck, eyes half-open. He doesn't want to close them, because then Sirius will leave and he'll hear screaming again.

"Obviously," Sirius responds, yawning, mouth open too extravagantly in that way of his. It's fairly early, but they both seem tired. Drained, even.

Sirius goes on for a while, rambling different bits of lyrics, anecdotes, mumbling about Paul and the break-up-back then it'd be Yoko as the cause, but considering the past fifteen or so years, Sirius is certainly up to break-up and downfall from the inside out-going on a little while. But then the words start to slow, and they're sleeping all curled up near each other, legs and arms all tangled.

Without lights and the call of birds, the Shrieking Shack is only a hollow thing, swaying with two sets of breathing and heartbeats.

* * *

In the morning when Remus stirs awake, he finds Sirius on his side nearby, looking out the window. Remus assumes that Sirius has taken a ragged cloak from a corner and draped it over his frame, thin and terrible as it must be to Sirius's eyes. But Sirius shows no signs of distaste, for he edges towards him again.

"You're awake. Good. Thought you were drifting," Sirius starts, looking down at him from above. He's smiling, and God knows why he does, Remus thinks, as Sirius grins down at him like a madman. As if there's been a prank pulled, or he'd like to tell him something important before breakfast. It's been merely hours, but he's settled a little, less furtive, and yet still uncomfortable.

It's all been turned upside down over night, twisted about.

"Drifting..." Remus trails off. He moves with a jerk, resting on his elbows, feeling more than a little confused. _Drifting away. Drifting dead and gone._

"But-as you can see-you're not." Sirius smiles, looking effortlessly brilliant, despite the setting and ragged attire. Remus wonders, not for the millionth time that night and morning after, if the descent into near madness or the strange return of Sirius is more painful. He doesn't know, and doesn't want to ask, for fear of it going away.

_Or it is gone, and the wolf came to claim you in a different way._

"We're going today," Sirius says, standing now, offering Remus a hand to get up. "We can't stay here forever, Moony. We'll need food-and we'll need to figure out how to make things right again."

"But we can't," Remus protests, nearly incredulous at the determination Sirius seems to have. "Voldemort-"

"Sod Voldemort. I have _you_, Moony, that's all the back-up I'll need." This is said with a winning grin, devious as ever, imploring. He always felt he could take on the world with his bare hands. Now younger, and with more troubles, perhaps he still feels he can do so. And up until the night before, when Remus had been screaming his voice hoarse, Remus had been on edge. Now he calmed, so suddenly, that it scared him. Sirius scared him. Because it was too good, too well and beautiful for Sirius to be there. It couldn't be, as much as Remus _needed_ it.

Sirius lunges down in a playful manner, grabbing Remus by the arm. He pulls him up to his feet, and for this moment, Remus is taller than Sirius. It's like they're boys again, as the memories keep stinging and breaking from their restraints. Remus had gotten a growth spurt, too old personality for the too young body that was at odds. All scrawny limbs and too tall stature.

But Sirius keeps staring at up him, innocent, and it makes Remus's insides twist.

They further twist into knots when Sirius brushes away a stray strand of hair from Remus's eyes, puts a hand on his cheek. It's rough and delicate, strong fingertips against sharp angles of face. Remus sighs, closing his eyes.

"You're beautiful, Remus," Sirius says, as if it's rather obvious, stating and imploring, but with a slight tremble. _Don't you see it? Don't you?_, he seems to add, in furrowed brow and questioning glance. "And you've nothing to be afraid of around me. I can tell you are-and I don't want you to be afraid. I'm here. It's all right now."

In a different time, Remus would laugh and offer a self-deprecating comment or two. But somehow, in the back of his mind, he thinks it ludicrous to come undone, to bend and be content with a mere touch, but he doesn't care. Because just then, he is. And it suits him just fine.

"You can't be real," he says with more longing than finality.

"Fuck, Moony, I'm _here_," Sirius snaps, jaw twitching, showing restraint. "I'm real. I don't need you breaking. I don't. I don't know why I came back, but you're the one thing that hasn't gotten wrong-that hasn't gotten destroyed. And I don't need you blaming-or breaking yourself in two any longer. I won't have it." Sirius shakes his head, determined, seemingly frustrated, voice rising, bit too high pitched. Even more than the unsettling new usual tone. "There's nothing out there, Remus. There's death, and fuck, I'll have at it, more than living here. We can't live life alone, us two, here, as much as you'd want to. As much as _I'd_ want to. I'd take my chances fighting a Death Eater out there any day then watch you and I waste away here without the sun."

He's right, Remus thinks, and then nods. Sirius isn't made for staying indoors. He's made for running and flying, on land and air, two legs, all fours, on a broom. He's always been restless. Not twitchy, just full of energy. Padfoot or not; it's what makes him Sirius. All boundless energy and hair in his eyes, skin tanned from too many summers. There had been times, during and after Hogwarts, when Sirius would rather spend his time lounging, reading, _being_ there with Remus.

Not now when there was no clear sunlight and constant grey, and Remus half-starved and scarred all over.

As much bravado as he likes to put on, Sirius is afraid. He's had too much time indoors, twelve years had now have never passed physically.

Sirius, Remus thinks, as his mind clears further, would rather die in open air then in the dark, in a space locked away again.

It's a sad realization that follows, Remus slouching a little, accepting.

"Then we go out to die," he says, picking up the cloak from the floor. He's still aching, back pain furious, but manages to stretch and pull the cloak around bony shoulders. Sirius doesn't reply; he puts his arm around Remus's waist, lets Remus put an arm around Sirius's shoulders. They're firm, toned from Quidditch, and just what he needs for the moment. Bit shorter, much younger, but Sirius, and that's more than enough.

After taking a final look around the walls he's called home for too long, Remus nods. They move to the door, and from there, the staircase.

"Together, even if you are heavy and quite the cradle snatcher at the present time," Sirius murmurs. "Could even visit Harry, if you like. See him smile again."

The sky outside is a drab grey, with clouds full of rain that will fall soon. Trees bend under wind on the grey landscape; the weeds and various dead plant life add to the lifeless view. Hogwarts is not far, and neither is Hogsmeade, although there's no point in going to either. For they are more or less dead themselves, voiceless beings that couldn't cry for mercy in war. No one really can, once they've been grown and flung into it.

But then it's all right for Remus right there, cold and staring up at grey sky, painfully aware he's alive, when Sirius's arm slips and the shadow at Remus's feet grows ever larger and apparent.

END

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